


are you trying to--?

by lubbydub



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Seduction, F/M, flustered astrophysicists, hand fetish? perhaps, handjobs, sly biologists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 01:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20921648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lubbydub/pseuds/lubbydub
Summary: "Is it working?"





	are you trying to--?

It's an odd thing to bring up, and Siebren isn't sure that he  _ can _ .

Dr. O'Deorain has been... well,  _ agitating _ isn't the right word, but she's been drumming her nails on pretty much every surface her hand comes into contact with, and fiddling with pens, clips, and the like-- he can't help but notice it. It doesn't  _ bother _ him per se, but he often finds himself following the motions with his eyes and ears when she does. At first, he's under the impression that she's graciously ignoring his bouts of distraction, but after the fifth time tapping those perfectly manicured points of hers on the table beside him and smiling when he looks, he isn't so sure.

Yet, there's nothing he can do to ask about it without seeming like a madman.  _ "Oh, Dr. O'Deorain, are you making these gestures to distract me from answering your questions about my physical and mental wellbeing, during a process I know you take incredibly seriously?" _

Ridiculous.

It isn't enough that he keeps looking at her hands, either. He has to  _ stare _ . Siebren finds himself watching the tendons in her wrist flex as she writes something down, watching the graceful way her fingers expertly slide her pen into her breast pocket and switch to holding her stethoscope. His eyes trace the purple veins that sprawl across her skin from her right elbow, like a tree; or perhaps a river. The skin shifts around and over it when she flexes her forearm, when she moves those artful hands of hers. Today she's wearing a pale gold shade on her nails. The contrast is pleasing to the eye.

Dr. O'Deorain is an attractive woman, to be sure. Siebren just isn't sure he's allowed to think so, especially not in such close proximity to her. She slings her stethoscope back around her neck and draws a tongue depressor from her coat pocket in one smooth motion, and he watches it all.

A slender hand seizes his jaw and pulls him forward, and Dr. O'Deorain commands him to open his mouth.

It takes him some time to register her words over the sudden flood of  _ soft, delicate, strong; don't flush, Siebren, God _ in his mind, and when he does, it's shyly with what he hopes is only a light pink across his cheeks. She only smiles that flat enigmatic smile of hers, telling him to stick his tongue out as far as he can. He's sure that he does.

He's also sure that medical doctors don't stroke the tongue depressor over their patients' lip before gently using it as though it  _ weren't _ simply a disposable tool and, perhaps, something  _ else _ \--

Siebren loses his battle against his flush immediately, and Dr. O'Deorain clicks her tongue.

"Developing a fever?"

"I should hope not," he replies lamely.

"Your throat is clear," she states, more to herself, and for a moment he has the hope that all will return to normal and that she'll let him forget about all this until later when he can take care of himself, shamefully alone in his room. With a final-sounding click of her pen, she tosses the clipboard beside him and steps between his spread legs.

Before he can even splutter out a demand for answers, she plants her hands firmly on his chest. She hums. He tries not to bite his lip. What the hell is even happening?

"Heartbeat steady and strong. A mite fast, but good, otherwise. How is your circulation?"

Siebren laughs, helpless. "I don't know. You're the doctor. I s-suppose you would know."

She takes his hands into his.  _ God,  _ _ God _ _ , they're so small curling around his fingers-- _

"Warm. Rather good, from a cursory examination."

His mouth is so dry.

Dr. O'Deorain's perfect nails pluck at the cotton knot of his pants' drawstrings, and he finds his voice, high and panicked.

"Doctor, are-- are you trying to  _ seduce me? _ "

Her smile widens.

"Is it working?"

Despite all good sense telling him to answer otherwise, he breathes "_y_ _ es _ ". She kisses him, and everything goes blank and hot, all at the same time. Her hands are just over half the size of his, and yet she manages to overwhelm him with them. With his eyes fluttered shut, he feels them  _ everywhere. _ Her nails gently scrape across his neck, his collarbone, through his short crop of hair, leaving bumps in their wake. The soft pads of her fingers and palms smooth over his cheeks and his biceps, and all his large, clumsy hands can do is cup her waist.

“So pliant,” she murmurs against his ear, suckling lightly on his earlobe before pulling back. His body immediately mourns the loss of her warmth.

“Doctor--” he starts, wanting to draw her back into the circle of his arms and have her kiss him and pet him until his are numb. She shushes him.

“Moira.”

_ “Moira.  _ Please-- _ ” _

“Oh, Siebren,  _ darling, _ ” she coos, making him shiver, “save the begging for when we begin.”

Suddenly, he’s on his back, and she’s straddling his thighs, and oh  _ fuck _ , he’s harder than he really should be at that. Moira laughs softly at the bulge growing rapidly in his cotton pants, and unties the knot languidly. She shrugs her coat off and lets it pool to the floor on her left, dropping her stethoscope atop it. The black satin of her shirt gleams a little under the white lights. Her hands tug her tie loose, but not undone, and then she reaches for his cock, throbbing and aching for her touch.

Moira pulls him out through the slit in his boxers, stroking his shaft almost thoughtfully. Siebren chokes on a moan.

“Such a fine specimen. A lovely size, and colour. It’s almost adorable how pink your glans is,” she says, and he would feel insulted at how she seems to be treating his manhood like a  _ pet gerbil _ if it weren’t for the electrifying ghosting of her nails over his glistening head. It leaves him breathless and bucking, his hands gripping tightly at her knees. Moira licks at her thumb and swipes it over the slit where his arousal spills forth in small, sticky beads, and clicks her tongue at him. He throws his head back with a long, desperate croon.

“Don’t make this difficult, Siebren. I can call this examination to a close whenever I want,” she says smoothly, gripping him tight at his root. With a heaving, shaking breath, he settles back down and keeps his fists balled tight at his sides. Moira tips her head at him with a pleased little smile, and strokes him again, with a squeeze of his head as she pulls off him. She keeps at it like that, for a while, the hard edges of her manicured nails just barely,  _ barely _ felt on each pump. It’s like a tease, her red-and-blue eyes watching him lazily while she works him, and soon he finds it isn’t enough.

Moira seems to have anticipated that, because she presses her thumb firmly against the underside of his cock on the upstroke, drawing his foreskin briefly over the head. Siebren curses loudly, digging his heel into the examination bed. He jumps in her hand, spilling a new wave of precum over her knuckles, and all she has to say is a soft and mildly surprised “ _ oh _ ”. He can feel it dripping down his length, and she bends close, as if to lick it up--

But she doesn’t. She lets her warm breath wash over his skin and he whimpers.

“Moira,  _ Moira, _ please. Let me--”

“Let you..?” she grins, now, lightly running the nails of her right hand over his glans. Her left simply massages his underside slowly with her thumb.

“ _ Fuck, _ ” Siebren groans, low and long. He’s so close. If only she would--

“Darling. How can I give you what you want if you don’t tell me?” Moira says sweetly, squeezing him at his base again. He hesitates. Maybe he can just come if he tries hard enough. Maybe he can avoid humiliating himself entirely in front of this beautiful woman and her wonderful hands. She presses her lips to his weeping tip, a flicker of tongue darting out to catch his arousal.

_ Fuck it. _

“Let me come, Moira,  _ please, _ ” he begs, finally, reaching down to cup her face. With a deft twist of her wrists and two strokes, he comes messily over his own stomach, on his shirt. She’s as pristine as when he first stepped into her office, save for her tie.

Now that he’s less worked up, he can see that she’s short of breath and flushed red, too. He should return the favour, really-- provided she wants him to. Siebren reaches for the button on her slacks, only for her to gently swat his hand away.

“No,” she breathes, “not now. Later. I still have others to check after you.”

Siebren cants his head, daring to raise his eyebrow.

“Seems like rather poor timing. We could have this office all to ourselves now if I’d been the last one, M-- Dr. O’Deorain.”

“Mm. It’s your fault for wearing that shirt size.”

“This is the biggest they have! I--”

“ _ Later _ , Siebren. Go on, shoo. I have to disinfect,” she says, casual as anything, flapping her hands at him as she picks her coat up from the floor.

He does as she says, but after pressing a hot kiss under her jaw, a promise for later.


End file.
